PS 3527 
.1325 
V5 
1918 
Copy 1 



ice 




RAYMOND LAWRENCE NICHOLS 
1899-1918. 



Victory s 
Price 



By 

William Newton Nictols 



Madison 
1918 



To my son, 

RAYMOND LAWRENCE NICHOLS 

Co. G, 127th Infantry, 3 2d Division, 

American Expeditionary Forces, 

who died for Liberty 

August 3d, 1918, near Pismes, Prance, 

at the victorious close of the 

Second Battle of the Marne; 

and to his comrades 

"Les Terribles" 

who lie in the shell-riven fields 
of Prance. 

BAR 8 m 



[4] 



"They have not died in vain!" 

THE MIDDEN-HEAP 
(Sept-1914.) 

Tools of the Giver of Thought are we 

formed each to carve a line, 
Base or noble as the great God wills 

to fit His plan divine; 
Aught of the meaning shall we e'er 

know, aught grasp of His design, 
Its pattern wrought with craftman's 

hand, set mete, and sacred sign. 

Handfuls of dross-spoilt ore were we 

He gathered where it lay, 
Buried since the Dawn beneath the 

earth and covered with foul 
debris; 
By fire and fan He purged us, till, 

freed from the cumbering clay, 
Tools well-tempered we wait till He 

needs our strength in His day. 

[ 5] 



Ever on high among the nations His 
twin Colossi stand, 

Fair Justice and Law, the great crea- 
tions of His all-skilled hand; 

Battered and bruised, o'er hill and 
vale, scattered through every 
land 

Lie the bones of those who were His 
tools, tombed but by the drift- 
ing sand. 

Battered and scattered by Memnon's 
shrine lie the tools the carver 
cast, 
Used and broken but the midden- 
heap may give them rest at last; 
Yet the thought that flowed through 
the chisel's point, all the strength 
in the mallet massed, 
Still endures, when as a God 'tis a 
memory of the Past. 

And the thought that swayed each 
warrior's sword, all the lore the 
scholar had, 
The song that swept the lyre's 
strings, made men be valorous, 
joyous, sad, 
The purpose we toil for, the sage's 
dream, — even when all are 
dead, — 
Shall live while they give aid to men, 
or sweeten the bitter bread. 



[ 6] 



ODIN'S CALL 
(Aug.-1914.) 

Ho! Arm ye quick my Heroes, 
For Ragnarok is come! 

Far borne o'er Niord's billows 
Echoes the cannon's drum! 



Lo! Now's the day, — the mighty 
Day I dreamed of yore, when 

Amid the Halls Immortal 

I saw the Cause, — and End! 



Valhalla's doors are open, 

Valkyries sweep the plain, 

To choose for Fame Eternal 
My Heroes 'mid the slain! 

Then fight ye well my Chosen, 

Though Loki lead their host; 

Nor fear ye Dwarf nor Giant, 

Nor Kingship's unlaid ghost! 

For out from all the turmoil, 

The slaughter and the wrong, 

I see emerge the Future, 

A new Race, — a new Song! 



[7] 



A PALADIN OF PRANCE 
(Aug.-1914.) 

Above fair Brussels the white clouds 

lie, 
Like bales of snow-white wool they 

float by, 
Borne Rhine-ward by the cold wind 

from the German Sea; 
A thunder crash shakes the vaulted 

blue, 
A mist of men and iron downward 

spew, 
An eagle screams above the cloud in 

battle glee; 
"Garros for France!" peals the war- 
rior cry, 
As down the lanes of battle dash the 

chariots of the sky! 



THE DAWN OF WAR. 
(Oct.-19i4.) 

Apart He rolls the grey-toned cur- 
tain of the Elder World, — 

The misty, fog-blown vail that Time 
had wrought to hide the Past, — 

And from out the vast Unknown, a 
dire tempest whirled, 

The myriads of the Slavs pour forth, 
God's fierce, scourging blast: 



[ 8] 



Stagnant, vexed with old corruptions, 
lay the king-ruled lands; 

Priests and nobles, in vice and sloth- 
ness, dyed their hands 

In Man's blood; and of his wretched- 
ness made sport; — 

Then Lo! — amid the flames of battle 
perish priest and court! 

Beneath th' cannon's iron hail their 

age-old cathedrals fall, 
Their wooded parks are swept away, 

their fortresses, aged, strong, 
Their museums, their works of Art, 

their stately church spires tall, 
All have perished — for they were 

builded on the quick-sands of 
Man's wrong! 

Note— The Prussian is not a true German, 
but a Slav cursed with a veneer of Teutonic 
Kultur. 



THE GOD OP WAR. 

(April-1915.) 

O Galilee! the blood of men 
In torrents pours on every field 
Of all the lands that to Him yield 
Worship, — who walked thy beaches 
then: 

Then, when thy storms obeyed His 

will; 
Then, when His voice bade them be 

still; 

[ 9] 



Then, when He spake from the 

fisher's boat, — 
Pillowed His head on the fisher's 

coat: 

Now the king's cry for him to shed 
Man's blood — He who for Man once 

bled; 
In His loved name cry woe and hate, 
Leave the ravished to the wolves — 

and Pate! 

O Galilee! Once thou meant peace! 

Once by thy marge we met a Friend, 

Once with Him conversed at day's 
end, 

Once found with Him of earth sur- 
cease; 

Yet, if these who now chant His 

name 
'Neath Gothic spire or Russian dome, 
Singing- His praise for war's red 

fame, 
Praying within some ruined home, 

Giving Him thanks who them has 

blessed — 
If these be His true priests, — ah, then 
Ne'er was He the Friend whose 

footsteps pressed 
Thy marge; — nor His love Man's 

desired end! 

[ 10] 



ATTILA. 

(Sept-1915.) 

Great God of our fathers! Shall we 

endure 
The scorn of the Goth? let him sleep 

secure 
While the blood of our men, our 

women, our babes, 
Red dyeing the seas slakes the lust 

he craves? 

Aye craves! An Attila sits on his 
throne, 

Who weighs not Man's life, loves the 
myriad groan 

Of the wounded who line the tor- 
ture fields, 

Who gives armed men Belgian babes 
for shields! 

O God! Lift the cup full-brimmed 

to his lip! 
May he live to see power from his 

fingers slip; 
May he die the death Thou gavest to 

Cain, — 
Or rot in a mad-house with crazed 

brain! 



[ 11] 



THE DREAM OF KAISERS TWO. 
(Nov.-1915.) 



Two Kaisers there were that 

dreamed 
That they should rule land and sea, 
Two peoples there were they deemed 
Bound fast to their axle-tree; — 
Ah me! the woe of that dream! 



Then first, from the high-borne 

clouds, 
Men rained Jove's fierce lightning 

down; 
Then first, from the vault of Night, 
Pell fire on the sleeping town; 
Then first men scanned the heavens, 
Whence Christ in His glory rose, 
In fear lest, 'mid moonbeams hid, 
Darksome shapes, abhorrent, poise! 



[ 12] 



Lo! By day the planes are flitting". 
Lo! by night the Zeppelins come; 
And the cannon, mountain-splitting, 
Drown the note of fife and drum; — 
Ah me! the world harks to that 
drum! 



League on league, from sea to sea, 
Lie the rotting frames of men; 
League on league but burnt rafters 
Mark the homes where love was 

then; 
Broken cannon, shattered entrench- 
ments, 
Ruined fields and shot-torn woods, 
Blood-dyed streams and gaping 

hedges 
Over which stern Memory broods; — 



Lo! the glory of the battle! 

— A woman's hair, — a child's 

rattle; — 
And, crushed amid his meek milch 

cattle, 
A peasant nigh his hut of wattle! — 
Woe me! The reaping of their 

dream! 



[ 13] 



THE KAISER'S DREAM. 
(Sept.-1916.) 

Where should a Caesar bear his 

sway, 
Save where, by its winding- pathway, 
The golden Tiber seeks the sea? 
Save where, by Naples' bay of blue, 
With tresses dark — the raven's 

hue, — 
The laughing maidens in wild glee 
E'er dance, and glance through 

lashes long, 
Or sing at eve Santa Lucia's song? 

Let my footsteps but lead to Rome, 
And 'neath Saint Peter's arching 

dome, 
I'll rear a throne 
Of Empire that for all my toil, 
War's tumult, horror, grimy moil, 
E'en Verdun's futile bloodshed shall 

atone! 



THE DAWN OP FREEDOM. 
(March-1917.) 

Great Ragnarok indeed was come: 
Prom Pole to Pole thundered the 

drum; 
Cathay and Ind their broad war- 
banners fly; 



[14] 



All Peoples moved their armies forth 
At battle's call; — no more was mirth 
In any land; — none heard the 
widows' and the orphans' cry. 



Then lo! The Dawn of Freedom 

breaks! 
Across the wide Slavic plain shakes 
The retreating banner of age- 

crowned Might; 
The kings tremble, as their high 

thrones, — 
Once set on skulls and rotting 

bones, — 
Topple, and their glory dies into 

night. 



The right of lords to grind the 

serf? — 
'Tis gone! And no more the green 

turf 
Is reddened by the despairing 

patriot's blood; 
Against the foe, whose German boast 
Claimed earth as campus for their 

host, 
Free men now pour, — a martial 

flood. 



L 15] 



THE MEN OF 1917. 
(May-1917.) 

His fathers wore the blue, 

He wears the khaki-brown; 

They knew the freedom of the seas, 

the woods, — 
He but the streets of paved town; 
And yet, on History's high roll, his 

fame 
Will march with grandsire's storied 

name: 

Theirs the rude courage from out- 
door life, 
Where contest with the moods of 

Nature gave them strength 
To meet all stress; — his that of the 

cultured brain, 
That taught, dares any length, 
Or height, or depth, that leads last 
To the desired goal, when the toil is 
past: 

Each to his country's need freely 

gave all; 
Nor held him back from anything 
Whereby his Nation should grow 

great, 
And that to his sons should liberty 

bring; 
Nor cared he for self, whether the 

tossing sea 
Or whispers 'mid the pines should 

his requiem be. 

[ 16 ] 



MARCH AWAY. 
(July-1917.) 

March away! March away! 
Eager, longing for the fray, — 
Longing for the coming day 
When against the German might 
Storm our legions for the Right. 

Ah! German Rhine! Thy waters 

yet 
Shall run with blood; nor e'er forget, 
Though long thy sons weep with 

regret, 
That each corse sowed in B-elgic field 
Did hundred-fold of harvest yield. 

March away! March away! 
Though your hair turn to gray; 
Freedom heard you cry "Aye!" 
When she called against the Hun 
Men fearing nought 'neath the sun. 

O'er Prussian plain your banners fly; 
Let Hartz echo the defeated's sigh; 
Hohenzollern's black eagle die 
When o'er Black Forest's shaded 

gloom 
Our banner crowns its Empire's 

tomb. 

March away! March away! 
Come back garlanded with the bay; 
Come you as come you may, — 
Still our hearts long for you 
'Neath the stars and falling dew. 

[ 17] 



THE CHARIOTS OF THE AIR. 
(Aug.-1917.) 



Bold was the man who first would 

drive 
The chariot of Apollo, 
But bolder yet the men who strive 
For the eagle as their fellow; 
That, soaring far above the world, 
Beyond the thunder-riven cloud, 
They'd battle there in tempest 

whirled, 
Where none could hear their cannon 

loud. 
Buried far in the depths of space, 
Beyond all straining human eyes, 
They dash, they soar, they upward 

race, 
Far swifter than the condor flies; 
Till, hurtling down, a thing of flame, 
A darting flash of death and hate, 
'Neath crumpled wings and twisted 

frame 
Lies the corse of him who met his 

fate, 
While, high above the <eagle, flies 
Its engine's roar its battle cry, 
The victor's chariot onward hies 
To seek a foe hid in the sky. 



[18] 



WAKE! 
(Aug.-1917) 



Sons of your fathers! Wake! The 

dawn is nigh! 
A glory in the heavens shake your 

banner high! 
High o'er the nations, a shield for 

the free, 
Menace of fate for those who hate 

democracy, 
Symbol of peace to those who cease 

from strife, 
Symbol of hope for those who 

grope amid the dust of life, 
Star-studded blue, the sky's own 

hue, its field uprear, 
Snowy bars, blood-dyed scars encirc- 

cLe near; 
Then high, high, rear it high! to 

all a sign,, 
Set foremost in the world's great 

battle line, 
That ye are sons of those who shed 

their blood 
To stem the war-borne tide of 

slavery's cruel flood. 



[19] 



THE REFUGE. 
(Sept-1917.) 



Within the shadow of the flag they 
rest secure, 

Your mother dear, your sister sweet, 
your sweetheart pure; 

No foul German beast, no vile wolf- 
ish, grinning- Hun, 

Shall e''er affright those sheltered 
'neath its folds outflung! 



The Belgic fields are trampled down, 

and red with mire, — 
Mire of human clay! all that bomb 

and Hun-set fire 
Can do is done; trembling, weeping, 

through the ruins stalk 
The shades of those who once the 

village street were wont to walk: 



Raped, and tortured, starved and 
beaten, as their oppressors will; 

Broken, sodden, past entreating, en- 
vying those they kill; 

So the ghosts of maidens pass, 
where upon their village green 

Olden sunsets brought fair lasses 
dancing o'er the scene! 

[ 20 ] 



In far lands our flag has flown, it's 

waved in many a breeze, 
It's soard above the crested snow, 
it's rippled 'neath the cocoa 
trees; 
But never since it broke the bands 

that bound the Afric slave, 
Has it sheltered aught beneath its 
folds save the freedom that God 
gave! 



Then spread its sheltering* folds 

broad, a shield above fair 
Prance, 
A message of hope to BelgiQ eyes, — 

the pennon of God's lance, — 
The lance that yet shall strike to 

earth the demon with his 
crown. 
The flag whose glories yet shall fill 

the world with its renown. 



Beneath its folds all nations shall be 

one and free; 
Nor any race, nor creed, know aught 

but liberty; 
There none shall domineer, there 

none shall bow as slave; 
Its folds shall be each woman's 

glory, its stars all men crave! 



[ 21 1 



"SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE." 
(Nov.-1917.) 

"Somewhere in France!" in death's 
cold trance, 

He sleeps the soldier's long-, last 
sleep; 

And o'er that mound-strewn battle 
ground, 

Dee weeps, — while the green ivies 
creep 

To lay their garlands on his grave, 

That final bivouac of the brave, — 

"Somewhere in France!" "Some- 
where in France!" 

By Ancre, Somme, or grim Verdun, 
On Ypres' plain, or Vimy's hill, 
Where, though cannon crushed and 

bayonet thrust, 
Britain's banner flies proudly still, 
There "over the top" our Yanks 

they go, — 
Because their bold hearts will it so, 
"Somewhere in France!" "Some- 
where in France!" 

God speed the day that sees our flag, 
Though battle-torn to but a rag, 
Lead o'er the crest, on to the Rhine, 
Through storm of shell and bullet 

whine, 
Our own brave men,— that when 

they fall 
They'll hear above them their own 

bugle call! — 
"Somewhere in France!" "Some- 
where in France!" 
[2'2] 



PRANCE-BOUND. 
(Peb.-1918.) 

Thou, my birth-land, — fast-fading 

land, 
That in my dreams I'll see; 
Thou fair land where my longing 

heart 
Will ever, ever be; 
My birth-land, my home-land, 
Land by the blue lake's lea; 
My birth-land, my home land, 
Shall I thee ever see? 

Thou far-off land, thou dear dream- 
land, 
Land of the heart's delight, 
Thou land which fond memory's sun 
Forevermore makes bright; 
Land where I, with heart free 
Prom all of cark and ©are, 
Unknowing weariness 
Dreamed love immortal there. 

Ah, thou fond land! O thou loved 

land! 
Land where with friends I'd roam, 
Through that fair land, ever-blest 

land, 
My own beloved home; 
Where never was harshness, 
Nor man made man to moan, 
Where dreaming nought evil 
I reaped the joy I'd sown: 

[23] 



Thou, my home-land, ever dear 

land, 
Land where my loved ones dwell; 
O my home-land! O my fond-land! 
'Twixt us the long- leagrues swell! 
In that far land, loved land, 
There would I ever be, 
Yet my eyes may but thee 
Through love's memory see! 



Till that great day at last shall 

come, 
That brings us to our own, 
When all who loved again shall 

greet, 
Nor find, then, olden grown, 
Those they loved upon earth, 
Those whose fond lips they've 

known, 
The souls, the scenes, their starry 

flag 
By Heaven's own breezes blown: 



And till that day we'll fight the fight, 

That man must fight to win, 

To gain for self, and for his race, 

Triumph o'er Death and Sin; 

To put the Right above the Wrong, 

Help the fallen, raise up the weak, 

With the pure crush the foul, — 

Be brave, be just, be meek! 



[ 24] 



FROM SHANNON'S SIDE. 

From wide Shannon and from fair 

Clyde, 
From by the Foyle and storm-vexed 

Moyle, 
From winding- Swilly's land-locked 

side, 
From all of Erin's grey-blue loughs, 
From Mask and Corrib and Lough 

Ree, 
From Derg and Erne and far Lough 

Veagh, 
From where Killarney's mild blue 

wave 
Its castled ruins reflect and lave, 
From where 'neath Corkonian 

boughs 
Lee hears the bells of Shandon toll, 
From all her isles in all her seas 
Eirne's hero-sons greet the battle- 
breeze! 

Their dead they cover Vimy's ridge, 
They clog the trenches in Flemish 

fields, 
They've crossed the Somme by pon- 
toon bridge, 
They've made their bodies living 

shields, 
Their hundred thousands heard the 

call 
As did the men of Fontenoy, 
And gay and free up-answered all, 
Not one who lagged, to honor coy, 
But bold they hurtle on the foe, — 
For France had called! — and they 
must go! 

[25] 



FRANCE. 

(May-1918.) 

O thou bleeding 1 heart of France 
Take new courage through the night, 
On your clustered standards glance 
The first rays of coming light; 
Dark the storm and drear the night, 
Lashing 1 , crashing, fell the iron hail; 
Raged the demons in their might, 
Rose on high the women's wail; 
Slaughtered babes lay in vour 

streets, 
Grandsires hoary in their blood, 
Fire fell from heaven in blazing 

sheets, 
Gas poured its death-whelmingr 

flood; 
Yet through all true to yourself, 
True to your heroic past, 
Recking not of life or pelf, 
Staking all on one bold cast, 
So you stood firm at Verdun, 
As you'd turned them at the Marne, 
To your battered ramparts clung, 
Heaped the Huns a battle-cairn; 
Now, O France, our legions come, 
As thine came once to our aid, 
And through gas and crashing bomb 
Dash our manhood, unafraid; 
Ours now let the burden be, 
On us now let it be laid, 
We who first knew Liberty 
Ours the task of Orlean's Maid! 



[ 26] 



THE HUNS. 
(May — 1918.) 

Stark, aguinst the reeling sky they 

stand; 
Fierce-eyed, grimy, spectres of the 

deep; — 
The Deep of Hell! Lowest of the 

Pit! 
Beasts whom e'en Satan could not 

endure! 
They pour their torrent across the 

Flemish land, 
They leave behind but ruins where 

women weep, 
They desecrate the church with ob- 
scene wit, 
They torture and they ravish, within 

their might secure! 
Lo! Ruin marks their pathway! 
Lo! Terror runs before! 
The shadow of their ranks of gray 
Casts its horror on each cottage 

door! 
No grain grows in the fields they 

pass, 
No fruits on any bough, 
Shattered walls rise amid the 

grass, — 
Filth-fouled altars where no knee 

may cow! 



[ 27] 



THE GOAL OP DESIRE. 
(Aug. — 1918.) 

They sing- as they enter the trenches, 

They sing- in the zone of fire, 

They sing- as they storm from the 

trenches, — 
For they have reached the goal of 
desire, — 

The goal of their high, fond desire, 
The goal to which their hearts proud 

aspire; — 
Their hearts which no marching 

could tire, — 
That goal — the baptism of fire! 

Singing their brown lines go for- 
ward; 

And there the Huns' rush is stayed; 

Singing they drive up the long 
slopes 

Till the Black Eagle in dust is laid: 

Yea, Prussia's Black Eagle is trail- 
ing, 

Trailing in the mud of the Marne, 

And the dead of their hosts is 
heaping 

A greater than Aix's battle-cairn! 

[ 28] 



But the boys who passed down our 

streets, 
Smiling with May and the morn — 
They are the ones who now singing 
Have smitten the Prussian to scorn: 

And the goal of their fond desire 

They have gained through sleet and 
storm, 

As through the hells of gas and 
liquid fire 

They dash to guard France the For- 
lorn. 



WISCONSIN'S HEROES. 
(Sept. — 1918.) 

On the slope of a wood in France 
they lie — 

Face to the sky, face to the sky, 

The winds blowing over them softly 
sigh, — 

"Not in vain they die!" "Not in 
vain they die!" 

"These young heroes who came 
across the sea, 

From the Land of the Free! From 
the Land of the Free! 

To battla for France and world-lib- 
erty, 

Heroicly! Heroicly!" 

[29] 



Through all years to come will their 

faces shine, 
In glory sublime, in glory sublime; 
And. wreaths immortal forever will 

twine, 
In Heaven's clime, in Heaven's 

clime, 
O'er their brows that the great sac- 
rifice have made, — 
Who their lives have laid, who their 

lives have laid, 
A free-will offering on Freedom's 

shrine, — 
To the end of Time, to the end of 

Time. 



The grief from our hearts it will 

pass away, — 
With the seasons' sway, with the 

seasons' sway; 
But their glory shall ne'er dim or 

decay, — 
In our hearts alway, in our hearts 

alway; 
But shall clearer shine as the years 

go by, — 
The years that try, the years that 

try; 
And their faces will greet us bye 

and bye, 
When the end is nigh, when the end 

is nigh. 



[ 30] 



VICTORY'S PRICE. 
(Sept. — 1918.) 



Ah, it's glorious to see the flag ad- 
vance 

Where the death-driven devils of 
battle dance; 

Ah, it's glorious to hear the victor's 
cry 

Where the Prussian lies prone 
neath the flame-riven sky; — 
But my laughing boy — he will 

come ne'er more 
From the shell-riven hell of far- 
away Prance! 



Ah, it's great to hear the high bu- 
gles crying 

When the broken foe in wild ter- 
ror's flying; 

Ah, it's great to see hope and joy re- 
light 

As through the vales of France goes 
our banner bright; 
But my laughing boy — he will 

evermore 
On the flame-stricken slope in 
France be lying! 



[31] 



Ah, it's proud I am that in carven 

brass, 
With the tattered ensigns glowing 

beneath the glass, 
That his name will stand with his 

comrades true 
'Neath the Capitol's dome all the 

centuries through; — 
But my laughing boy, — he will 

come ne'er more 
With the flowers of spring and 

the swift-greening grass! 



Ah, my heart will fly at each mo- 
ment's chance, 

When e'er through the window I 
may eastward glance, 

To a wooded slope where machine- 
guns flame, 

Where the Sons of Wisconsin carved 
their "Terrible" name; — 
For my laughing boy, — he will lie 

e'er more 
On that blood-soaked fteld in far- 
distant France! 



[ 3.2] 



